


Special Muffins

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cousin Incest, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros opens the shop early to deal with pesky brothers, safeguard his father’s recipes, and chat with perfect cousins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Muffins

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “So, given that the line of Finwë is horribly tragic, destructive, and emotionally draining, how about an AU where Fëanor and his sons own a coffee shop across the street from the coffee shop run by Fingolfin, Finarfin, and their children? Given the rivalries between the two shops, it's only natural that conflict would arise- and the two eldest sons of Fëanor and Fingolfin seem determined to subvert it in any way possible. Bonus points: + Amrod and Amras being a pair of little shits + Fingon and Maedhros sharing haircare tips over coffee + A triad of secret coffee recipes Fëanor guards secretly and jealously” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=25475600#t25475600).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They come in early like they always do, Maglor to the back and Maedhros to the front of the house. He can hear the muffled noise of Maglor’s radio turning on while he gets the lights. The coffee shop is just as he left it, save for the snack bar—the shelves are empty and the day-olds are wrapped up in cellophane in the basket. Celegorm’s scrawled a hasty three-quarter price sign, even though Maedhros and Maglor always say they should be _half_ off. Caranthir doesn’t care either way and never weighs in. The trouble with leaving Celegorm in charge of the late shift is that all of Maedhros’ decisions tend to come undone.

And then there’s Curufin, of course, who clearly favours Celegorm and always takes his side, especially when it comes to financials. But Curufin tends to run those financials without even stepping foot in the shop, so Maedhros pays him little heed. 

Maedhros fishes a piece of scrap paper and a marker out of the drawer beneath the counter and overrides Celegorm’s sign, inserting his own into the day-old basket. If they’re ever going to compete with the place across the street, they’ll need to have fair prices and not look like the greedy one. 

Convincing Curufin and their father of that seems a losing battle, so Maedhros tries not to pay it any more mind and instead goes for the broom. He does a quick sweep of the tile floor, enjoying the relative silence beyond the dull thrum of Maglor’s music through the back wall. When Maedhros reaches the window, a loud clang sounds behind him—cutlery hitting the floor. Maedhros hears it all the time, but usually when the shop’s actually open.

He spins around and isn’t particularly surprised to see the twins frozen by the register, several wrapped baked goods in their arms and the jar of new spoons empty on its side next to Amras’ elbow. They both look at Maedhros with wide eyes, then point to each other. 

Sighing, Maedhros leaves the broom against the window and walks over to them. Neither brother bothers to run; they’ve clearly been caught red-handed. When he reaches the counter, Maedhros puts his hands on his hips, and Amras and Amrod don begrudging scowls and start putting the day-olds back.

“If you want to be involved in the baking, you’re free to help Maglor in the back,” Maedhros suggests, which of course makes both their noses scrunch up. They’re from a hard working family, but they’re also the youngest and so far adverse to real work. Sometimes, Maedhros thinks it for the best. Maybe they should spend their weekends sleeping in and their school nights with their mother, so they don’t get pulled into the turbulent tug-o-war this place is. That’s no excuse to come in and wreak havoc, though. If their father would allow it, Maedhros would confiscate the twins’ keys.

Amrod relinquishes the last croissant, and Maedhros takes a quick mental count of the basket—nine items—before he bends down to retrieve the fallen spoons. After, he pushes the jar towards their side of the counter—now the spoons will need to be washed again. Amrod takes it with a pout, and Amras whines, “But Maglor hogs the radio, and he plays such lame music.”

“If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to tell him you called harp music lame, and then I’m going to tell dad you tried to steal our goods again.”

A look of pure horror flitters across both boys’ faces, and that gets them going, probably more for fear of their father’s disapproval than a fight with Maglor. They scamper off and through the door to the back, leaving Maedhros to shake his head and wonder if he should have Celegorm writing down nightly inventory. ...And maybe convince Caranthir to take over signage.

With the shop clear again, Maedhros returns to his broom. He doesn’t quite make it. Before he closes his fingers around the handle, he hears the click of the lock, and then the bell above the front door rings. It swings open, drawn shades and all, to admit the owner himself. Maedhros flashes his father a smile, but Fëanor doesn’t return it. 

Instead, he shuts the door carefully behind himself, re-locks it, and marches right over to Maedhros to ask, “You haven’t given anyone my muffin recipe, have you?”

Lifting both brows, Maedhros coolly replies, “Good morning to you too, Dad.”

Fëanor remains firm for about half a second, then softens and shakes his head, dislodging the long, silken hair that most of them inherited. Maedhros’ is a brighter shade of copper, the thick waves drawn back in a messy ponytail, like he usually keeps it for work. Fëanor looks impeccable as ever, even this early in the morning. He sighs, “I’m sorry. It’s just that Curufin finished his financial report for the month, and if his sources on my brothers’ shop are correct, we’ve lost our lead.” Before Maedhros can say that’s hardly cause for alarm—Fëanor’s winning streak was bound to fail sooner or later—Fëanor adds bitterly, “And I saw your grandfather visiting their shop the other day.”

Maedhros knows his father well enough to guess how much that must sting, even if he doesn’t share the sentiment. He shrugs noncommittally and tries to joke, “Technically, our house is closer to that side of the street—maybe he just didn’t want to walk the extra six meters.”

The suggestion clearly does little to ease Fëanor’s mood. He scowls and mutters, “My father prefers _my_ muffins; everyone knows that. And I won’t be pleased if I find out my brothers have stolen my recipes.” 

Maedhros’ uncles would never do that. But Fëanor clearly doesn’t know his own brothers as well as Maedhros has grown to know Fingolfin in particular, and Maedhros knows that confessing that growing bond will do neither of them any good. At the end of the day, he knows how important those recipes are to his father, and though Maedhros still thinks that vow the whole family had to swear never to reveal them was wholly silly, he’ll always hold to it. He tells his father truthfully, “I would _never_ break your trust that way.”

Fëanor’s eyes fix onto his and remain there for a moment, Maedhros standing firm. Then Fëanor nods and grunts again, “Of course. I’m sorry to insinuate otherwise.” And he reaches out to cup Maedhros’ cheek, then leans forward to peck Maedhros’ forehead, though the gesture’s become more difficult than when Maedhros was little—he’s grown taller than anyone else in the family, including Fëanor himself. When Fëanor pulls back, he clasps Maedhros’ shoulder. “Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and let you know I won’t be able to make my late shift. I have to drive across town—that rat Melkor’s trying to buy us out again.”

“Good luck,” Maedhros offers, even though he knows that between his father’s general brilliance and Curufin’s legal cunning, their little independent coffee house is virtually invincible, no matter what rich developers want to take over the neighbourhood. Fëanor dips his head again and retreats back to the door, key coming back out of his pocket—after the last time Melkor broke in after hours when he was gone and their grandfather was enjoying a last latte, Fëanor never leaves the place unguarded. Sure enough, when Fëanor’s back out onto the street and the door’s shut behind him, Maedhros hears the familiar twist of the lock again. 

Back to the broom, Maedhros finishes up and retires it, then starts pulling the chairs off the tabletops and pushing them in. On the third one, the back door opens, and suddenly a second pair of hands is helping Maedhros lift down the chair. He grins as he tucks it under the table and asks, “How’d you get in here?”

“With the spare key my loving cousin entrusted me with,” Fingon drawls, already moving onto the next chair. Maedhros returns the fond look he gets and says a silent thank you that Fingon didn’t arrive even five minutes earlier—Fëanor wouldn’t have been pleased. 

But Fëanor’s wars aren’t Maedhros’, and Maedhros happily takes his favourite cousin’s help. As they finish the second table and move onto the third, Maedhros notes, “Maglor and the twins were back there—did they see you come in?”

Fingon snorts. “With the mess Maglor was dealing with back there, I doubt he would’ve even noticed a fire. Amrod or Amras or whichever knocked over a couple pounds of flour, by the looks of it.” Maedhros sighs and considers going back to help, but he can’t leave now, not when Fingon’s out here. Fingon gives him an indulgent smile, which seems to say ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ then says aloud, “I think we have a few minutes alone.” 

“Finally,” Maedhros chuckles. Fingon moves to another table, and Maedhros abandons him, walking back over to the counter and announcing, “I’ll make you a blended mocha—double shot, no whip.”

Fingon continues prepping the chairs and returns through a stunning grin, “You know just what I like, Nelyo.”

Maedhros nods and gets to work. To be fair, the knowledge is mutual—he’s never had a bad coffee at Fingon’s family shop. He also puts on a plain pot for himself—he’ll get a fancier, more sugary drink later. Still a hot one. Their shop specializes in hot coffee, Fingon’s in ice drinks. Over the whir of the ice machine for Fingon’s treat, Maedhros calls, “So, what should we do with our time? Plot the miraculous reuniting of the Finwë family again?” As though they haven’t done that enough.

Fingon fixes the last table and offers, “Hey, I’ll share my dad’s recipes if you share yours.” 

Maedhros snorts. He doesn’t even have to answer—Fingon dons a knowing smirk that says as much. He makes his way over to the counter and stands at the other side, folding his arms next to the register. A few strands of long, dark hair slither over his broad shoulders, the golden ribbons he so often wears weaved into braids on both sides. Some days, Maedhros has been fortune enough to tie those in. He wishes he’d had the opportunity this time. 

When he realizes he’s lingered too long at one station, distracted by his gorgeous cousin, he bustles on with the drink and asks, “So, how’s your shop doing?”

“Curufin could tell you better than me on the business details,” Fingon answers, shrugging his shoulders. “But I think we’re doing alright. Finrod’s devised a new advertising campaign, just in case he doesn’t already have enough friends in the community. Turgon’s been hiding out in the kitchen even more than usual, to the point where I have to drag him out sometimes. Oh, and Galadriel’s got a new boyfriend. Some blond pretty-boy from the Melian district.”

“Well, you’d know all about pretty-boys,” Maedhros laughs, amused by the wording.

Fingon plays along and counters, “I would; I spend all the time off I can with one.” Maedhros just rolls his eyes.

He gives Fingon’s drink a final stir and concludes, “Well, good for her. Better than the old grey customer she’s such good friends with that you’re always telling me about, anyway. At least we’re not all cursed to die alone.”

Fingon doesn’t get a chance to answer right away—Maedhros has finished up and grabs a straw and a mug for his plain one on the way out. One drink in each hand, he walks back around the counter and heads for the nearest table—a small two-seater where their knees will probably brush together. He sets both cups down, Fingon following to sit.

Plucking the straw from Maedhros’ fingers, Fingon peels away the wrapper and sticks the plastic length into his blended drink, served in a to-go cup, just in case. On the first sip, he smiles, that beautiful one that reads: _delicious_ , and Maedhros gets a familiar spark of pride. Then Fingon pulls off to lick his lips, stir his drink, and idly suggest, “You know... we could always get married. That would certainly reunite the family.” He glances up mischievously, while Maedhros’ heart beats just that little bit faster. 

Just so he doesn’t get too caught up in the fantasy, Maedhros reminds them both, “Or start a war.” He grins when Fingon does, but neither of them really laugh. They both turn back for sips, though Maedhros’ is a little _too_ hot and requires much blowing before each sip.

Fingon mumbles softly, “My father’s forgiven yours for moving here first and leaving the rest of us behind, you know, even if he’s too stubborn to say it.”

Maedhros’ heart constricts. He proved his loyalty then, and it’s still one of his biggest regrets. He murmurs just as quietly, “I’m glad you followed.” And then he reaches across the table with his free hand, laying it over Fingon’s. Even in empty jest, the concept of _being with Fingon_ , fully and to _marriage_ , leaves Maedhros glowing. It’s enough to keep the old, painful memories from fully rehashing and flooding into him. 

Though Fingon turns his hand over so he can thread their fingers together, Maedhros mutters, “I have to open soon—perhaps we should talk of lighter things.”

Fingon bends to take another sip through his straw, then asks, “Alright, what do you want to discuss?”

Maedhros thinks a moment before tilting his head and asking, “How _do_ you get your hair so glossy and those ribbons to sit just right?”

Fingon laughs. “You’re welcome to come over and try my shampoo, Nelyo. I’ll even give you a ribbon of your own.” And he winks, leaving Maedhros’ heart to flutter and his mind wondering how he’ll manage to sneak out again. Maybe someday, they’ll share a shower and products, and Maedhros will be able to finger-comb Fingon’s hair every morning.

For now, he’s about to answer, but over Fingon’s shoulder, Maedhros can see a familiar shadow through the glass door and light screen. Fingon, maybe seeing the worry on his face, dons a frown and turns to look back. Maedhros mutters, “Huan must’ve pestered him for a walk, and of course he’ll want to check in with Curufin putting us all on alert...”

Fingon lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t ask what that alert is. Instead, he just stands up, sighing, “Thanks for the coffee.” Maedhros nods and wishes it didn’t have to end like this, like it always does. He stands up too, and Fingon walks around the table, lifting up on his toes to press a chaste kiss to Maedhros’ cheek. If Maedhros had time, he’d turn and get a proper goodbye. 

Fingon, already heading for the back door, tells him, “I’ll give you your tip later.” With a wink, Fingon’s gone, just as Huan pulls Celegorm through the opening front door. 

It’s close enough. Maedhros heads to pull the screens up and put out the ‘open’ sign, while Celegorm smiles for greeting and says, “I meant to tell you, there were ten pastries when I left—you better not have let the twins in!”


End file.
